The Volunteer
by SnowyAshKitty
Summary: His whole life had been a lie. What was that dream he couldn't remember? How much can one person imagine? A somewhat, maybe kind-of Harry Potter/Hunger Games cross-over? Possibly a character study. Written for a class.


The Volunteer

Harry Potter had once been a seemingly normal boy, or at least as normal of a boy as any who lived in a cupboard. He'd lived in England and went to primary school with his cousin just like many other little boys. Then on his eleventh birthday, everything he thought he had known about the world around him changed. The excited young boy had realized that nearly his _whole life_ had been a lie, because his relatives hadn't told him about magic. So it was that for the next nearly seven years of his life, he lived among witches and wizards in England.

But unfortunately for Harry, he was soon to realize that maybe that world had also been nothing more than a lie as well. Everyone knows children are certainly more resilient, more adaptable to changes than a full-grown adult, and this time he wasn't a young, excited child. Of course, he wouldn't have survived if he was; after all, **_Rue hadn't survived_**.

* * *

><p>Harry Potter awoke to a cold morning with snow piled against his door, and he knew that today was going to be a horrible day. He'd just had an awful fight with Ginny yesterday, and had ended up back in Grimmauld place to get away from everyone else. As he reached over for his glasses he couldn't help but sigh because he knew he would have to fix the mess that he had made. However, as he slowly stood up and glanced to his left to look out the window, he couldn't help but feel as if something was very wrong. Upon a second look, he realized that the view from the window was all wrong. In fact, once he thought about it, he realized he shouldn't of known that there was snow piled outside his door either. It had just started to begin snowing late last night and was barely laying on the ground when he walked into Grimmauld.<p>

Yet as he thought all these things, he couldn't help but remember others. There had been snow in the district for nearly three months now. The snow had been blocking his front door for over a week, but he only really used his workshop door anyways. His workshop was a room full of clay pots and a kiln against the other side of the wall that his bed was against. Today was a horrible day, because…

His mind seemed to stutter a bit on the last thought, and he had the feeling of a dream just barely there at the edge of his mind, a dream that had just now barely slipped out of his reach. He knew he had fully remembered it upon waking, had even been solely focused upon it in his first thoughts and had been fully convinced that it was real. Now though, all he could remember was the cold and drowsiness that came with any early morning wake-up.

Today was the day of the reaping, and that was what made it a horrible day. It was made even worse because who ever would be chosen would be one of the ones trying to go out and kill that head-strong girl from District 12. Being stonemasons and such, most of the news from the capital spread fast among the people here. When a tribute was a volunteer from a poorer district, well such a thing wasn't seen often. Here in District 2 the tributes were considered career tributes, and there was a long process involved for those who wished to volunteer. Of course, everyone who had volunteered had went to an academy to train before offering themselves as tributes. It was simply how things were done here, not that there was any actual rules specifying it.

As Harry got dressed for the day and calmly walked through his workshop door, he looked over all that was his in the meager abode. Unlike many of the others in this district, he didn't feel the need to flaunt his wealth even if he was among the well-off for his profession. He merely had what he needed to survive and nothing more. In fact, he didn't really even have anything sentimental. Nothing in this place held any real meaning or memories for him. Looking around and thinking of the life he had led, Harry felt almost hollow. He had no real purpose for being alive, and yet here he was going out to celebrate others being forced to give up their lives. Even if those of his own district did so gladly, many of those in the Games never really wanted to participate. He thought of the girl he'd heard that had volunteered to save her sister. She had _as good as committed suicide_ for her _family_. She _cared_ about others. She had a _reason_ for living.

**_She would need all the help she could get._**

With his mind made up, he finally walked through the door of his workshop and out into the cold. He had made sure to put out all the fires, and to shut the door as firmly as he could. He was going to volunteer. He was going to fight in the trials against the career tributes, so that he would be the one in the games not them. _He was going to help her._

He wasn't sure why, but he felt confident that he had the skills needed to survive. He somehow knew that he could handle the weakness of hunger and the fight against other humans. He felt almost as though he had done this before, as laughable as the thought seemed.

With a slight sigh, he wandered towards the amphitheater where the reaping would be held. Now if only magic was real he thought with a bitter laugh, because surely they would need it if the girl, _no not the girl_, if **_Katniss_** was to survive.

* * *

><p>Somewhere, in a chilly little room painted with faded lions and hounds, a boy much stronger in mind than in body lay on worn blue sheets. His eyes were open staring out at the snow much as they often were during the winter days. He'd long given up on ever being able to move about and instead cherished his dreams. The elaborate worlds of his mind was ever so much nicer than the world that had broken him so long ago. A home-care nurse bustled about taking care of the poor boy who had nearly been killed in a car crash when he was barely more than an infant.<p> 


End file.
